


Take Me Home

by Liz_Night



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Men of Letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_Night/pseuds/Liz_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester grew up with his brother and parents, always knowing that he was a Man of Letters, like all the Winchester men before him. But the world of hunting called to him in a way that the other life didn't. After a hunt ends in tragedy, Dean is raised from the dead. The angel who claims to have brought him back doesn't bring good news. The Apocalypse is approaching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally back! I just got my computer back this weekend so I can start typing things up again soon! I hope to have the next chapter of Justice up within the week. As for the next chapter of this, I will get it out when I finish the third. But it's longer (much longer!) than my normal projects.

I.

Dean hadn't meant for this to happen. As he ran to his brother he knew what would happen to himself. He should have listened when Sam said that he had a bad feeling about the hunt they were going on that night. But in that moment he had found peace. As the demon sunk the old knife into his abdomen instead of Sam's, Dean smiled. And then buried his own knife in the demon's chest.

"How pathetic," the poor possessed bastard smirked. "You die for your brother and then try to kill me. Knives can't harm me, you fool."

Blood dribbled down his chin as he felt the knife twist. Through the pain, he used the last of his strength to push his knife further. "It's not any knife," he forced out, eyes blazing to make up for his weak voice. "It's a Kurdish blade…made to kill…monsters like you."

The demon's eyes widened as a light in him flickered and he fell to the ground. Without the demon holding him up, Dean fell back into his brother's arms.

"Dean, don't," Sam had been yelling that whole time, but only now that he was safe did Dean hear his broken voice. "Don't leave me."

"It's okay, Sammy," he said softly. His body was beginning to numb except for his wound. "Pearly gates and…all that, remember? I'll be waiting for you…with a beer. Just don't come too soon. Get a wife…and kids first. Grow old and cranky."

Tears fell from Sam's eyes. "I love you, Dean."

"Love you, too, little brother," he whispered as his eyes fell shut and the pain finally stopped.

* * *

He woke with a gasp, chest burning and aching. He rubbed at the muscles and the pain began to ease. Dean looked around the foreign room without distraction.

It was cold and dark. He lit the lighter he found in his pocket and looked through the murky gloom with a growing sense of dread. He knew this place. He'd seen it only months before when his grandfather Henry had died. Why was Dean in the family crypt?

He slid off the stone slab and on to his feet. When he looked down at himself he wondered why he'd gotten so drunk at a party his mother forced him to dress formally for. He wore the suit that he usually tried to hide at the very back of his closet, underneath several old, dusty tomes. (Though, somehow, it always found itself clean and ironed when his mother decided that he needed it.)

Dean rubbed his forehead. He felt like he was missing something, but the more he looked back, the more his head hurt.

_Leave the crypt._

Dean started and swung around, flame from the lighter going out. He swore and tried to relight it and swore even more when he burnt his thumb, but got the flame back.

He was alone. His only company in the tomb were the bugs and the dead, neither of which did he want to be speaking to him. He quietly walked towards the doorway, wishing he had some kind of weapon. Dean had to fight the urge to rub his ears. For some reason the ringing silence was making them ache.

Dean pulled the door open and peered outside, listening. The cemetery was silent. He stepped out and shut the door. The night was dark and chilly, the moon hidden from sight by storm clouds. The wind smelled like a storm was on the way and quickly. Dean glanced back. As much as he didn't want to get soaked, he also did not want to go back. So he began to walk home.

He was a quarter of the way there when the heavens opened and Dean found himself sodden in a matter of minutes. He trudged through the growing mud, feet squishing in his shoes.

Finally, the light from the farm house that belonged to the Winchesters grew closer. His breath puffed out of him in misty clouds. Dean staggered up the steps of his house, hands and feet numb. He knocked and waited, shivering in his drenched clothes.

A cold blade pressed to his throat as an arm wrapped around his shoulders from behind. "What are you?" the man behind him growled.

Dean swallowed and felt a sting as the blade bit into his skin. "It's Dean."

"Fucking liar," the man growled. "I buried my son two months ago. Try again."

"It's me," he said, not able to keep the pitch of his voice from rising. He had _died?_ "When I was in kindergarten, I got kicked out of school for telling other kids that ghosts, vampires, and werewolves were real."

For a moment, the knife pressed closer to Dean's throat, then pulled away. "Dean," his father whispered as he spun him around. He held him at arm's length before pulling him forward and into a tight hug. "How?"

Dean wrapped his arms around his dad. The embrace felt new in a way, more comforting than ever before. "I don't know," he said softly. "I just woke up in the crypt."

John pulled away, but kept a hand on his son's shoulder. "We'll figure it out. But let's go tell your mom and brother."

"Dad," Dean said, stopping him. "There's something else. In the crypt, I heard a voice. I don't know who or what it was, though."

"It's okay," he nodded. "This is our priority now."

John opened the door and pulled Dean in. The young man toed his ruined shoes off.

"John," Mary called as she turned the corner. "Who was—?"

She stared at him, tears filling her eyes. "Dean," she whispered.

"I'm home, Mom," he said softly. She ran forward, arms wrapping around his neck.

"Sam," John called. "Get down here."

Mary pulled away, wiping her eyes. "Oh, honey. You're soaked."

"What is it?" Sam asked as he quickly ran down the steps. He stopped when he saw Dean and stared. He glanced at their parents who both nodded before he rushed forward, hugging his brother. "You were gone," he said thickly. "You _died._ "

"It's okay," Dean reassured him, rubbing his brother's back. "I'm back. You can't get rid of me that easily."

Sam choked out a laugh and drew back. "What happened? What do you remember?"

Dean bit his lip, trying harder than before to remember all that had happened. "I remember…the demon and dying, but, after that, it's a blank. It's been two months?"

"Yes," Mary nodded, eyes filling with tears. She shook her head and pulled Dean away by his arm. "Let's get you changed before you get sick."

Dean looked back to see John wrap an arm around Sam's shoulders. The younger man clung to their father. Dean turned the corner and followed Mary. They climbed the stairs and went up to his room.

It was exactly how he'd left it the night of the hunt. Even the bed sheets were still rumpled from where he'd left the bed to sneak out with Sam.

Mary left the room and returned with a towel. "None of us had the heart to clean it out," she said as she handed it to him.

"Well, I'm thankful for that," Dean replied. He reached into his drawers to take out a long-sleeved sweatshirt, underwear, and jeans, rubbing his hair down. "Um, Mom," he said as he started unbuttoning his shirt. "Can you, eh, leave me a moment to get dressed?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," she brought her hands up to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. "I—I just…I'm so happy that you're still here. You're still alive!"

"It's okay, Mom," he nodded as he finished the last button and started pulling it off. "It'll only take a—"

A gasp cut him off. He jerked to look up at her and she pointed at his shoulder, hand shaking. He looked down and saw a darkened spot on his skin that still glistened from the rain. He angled his body to look in the mirror hung above his dresser and couldn't help his own gasp. He touched it gingerly, surprised when it didn't hurt. A handprint burnt into the flesh of his shoulder.

"Mom," he said, not noticing when his voice quavered. "Have you ever heard of anything like this?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. Never."

"Do you think Dad has?"

"Dean," she whispered. "We looked. There's nothing about this. People don't come back from the dead. Not as themselves, anyway."

Dean nodded absently, tracing the outline with one finger. The texture of the scar was completely different from that of the rest of his skin. "This just keeps getting stranger by the moment."

* * *

Dean sat up gasping, sweat, dripping down his face. He covered his mouth with one hand, afraid that he might vomit.

"You are remembering, then?"

His head whipped up to stare at the man across the room from him. He looked to only be a few years older than Dean's twenty-two. He nearly hid in the shadows of the room. Dean turned the lamp on beside his bed to see him properly discreetly palming the knife from under his pillow. "Who are you?" he asked, voice rough. "And what are you talking about?"

"Your knife won't harm me," he said as he picked up a signed baseball from Dean's dresser. "I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord."

"Bullshit," Dean said, hand tightening around the handle of the knife. "There's no such thing as angels. Tell me what you really are."

The man placed the baseball back down on the dresser, hand tightening around it for a moment. "Read your books. We do exist."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Dean growled.

He sighed, exasperated with the man sitting in the bed. "You did see me. Your dream, it is of the time you spent in hell. Shortly before you awoke, you saw a bright, pure white light. That was my grace."

Dean growled and threw his knife, but a second before it would have found itself buried in the man's chest, his disappearance was accompanied by the sound of wings flapping. The blade sunk into the wall.

He sat in bed, shivering from his adrenaline rush. That man, Castiel, what was he really?

* * *

Dean looked up as Sam entered the library in the morning. Several books were open in front of him, some that Sam had never seen anyone in the family use. Dean yawned as he rubbed a hand through his chaotic hair.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked as he sat down across from him. He glanced down at the book closest to him and found that it was an old translation of the Bible. He stared at Dean, who had never shown any interest in religion before.

"Tired," he shrugged. "Couldn't really sleep last night."

"What are you looking for?" the younger brother said hesitantly.

Dean bit his lip and looked down at his hands before looking back up. "I think I might have met whatever raised me. Or what wants me to believe it did."

"What?!"

Dean nodded miserably. "It called itself 'Castiel.' Said it was an angel."

"But no one's ever seen an angel," Sam remarked in wonder and disbelief.

"I know," Dean nodded. "So I said that and he told me to read the books."

"Have you found anything yet?" Sam asked, spinning a few books around so that he could look as well.

Dean shook his head. "A few mentions, but nothing of detail. Generations of Men of Letters all say there's no such thing."

"We should probably tell Dad," Sam suggested. "He knows most of Grandpa Henry's sources. He might know something more."

Dean sat back. "Alright," he sighed. "Mom's going to kill me for putting a hole in her wall." Sam laughed as he began to stand up. "Sam, wait. I need to ask you something."

Sam sat back down warily. "What?" he asked, intentionally keeping his voice light.

"After that night," Dean paused, unsure of how to continue, "was Dad angry at you about the hunting?"

"No," Sam shook his head, looking away.

Dean smiled. "You're a bad liar, Sammy. It wouldn't be the first time. Tell me what happened."

Sam stared down at his hands. "That night…I drove you back here. Dad was waiting on the porch and started shouting as soon as I got out of the car. It took a few moments for him to realize that he couldn't see you. He kept asking where you were and I couldn't answer. He looked in the back seat and…" Sam shook his head, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "Mom and Dad haven't brought up hunting since."

Dean nodded. "I'm sorry. If there'd been any other way, you know I would have done it." Sam nodded, staring down at the closest book blankly. "So where did you decide to go to college?"

Sam frowned and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "I didn't. I'm not going to college."

"What?" Dean squawked, leaning forward. "Sammy! You were thrilled to be getting away from here!"

Sam shrugged. "It just didn't feel right after what happened."

"Sam," he said. "It wasn't your fault. Don't punish yourself for my actions. You're my baby brother. I've always protected you and I always will. Live your life the way you want to."

"Dean," he sighed. "We'd just lost you. I couldn't leave Mom and Dad like that. I can go to college whenever I want."

Dean shut the book in front of him. "You're going to college if I have to drop you and all of your things there myself."

Sam shut his own book and helped with all the others, a smile hiding in the corner of his lips.

"Let's go talk to Dad," he said, clapping Sam on the shoulder when all the books were stacked.

They left the library and found their parents in the kitchen. John sat on the counter, speaking to Mary quietly as she fixed breakfast. They stopped when they saw their sons come in.

"Dean spoke to something that claims to have raised him," Sam said as he sat down at the table.

Dean didn't imagine how both his parents seemed to pale. "What was it?" his dad asked.

Dean leaned back against the table. "He looked like a man, but, then, don't most monsters? He claimed that he was an angel named Castiel."

"Did he have yellow eyes?" Mary asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She wouldn't look at him.

Dean shook his head. "No, he looked like a tax accountant. Typical mid-westerner. White, dark hair, blue eyes."

A weight seemed to leave John and Mary. "I don't have much on angels. I'm not even sure they really do exist," John shrugged. "But I have a friend who has a library himself on the occult. He might have something. I can give him a call."

"Thanks, Dad," Dean said.

"I'm surprised that you didn't wake us up from yelling," John smiled. "I would've expected you to get into a fight."

Dean looked down. "Well…I kind of need to fix the wall."

Mary stared at her oldest son. "What did you do to my wall?" she nearly snarled.

Dean gulped.

* * *

Dean looked up as someone entered the room. He dropped the sand paper he'd been using into the tray with all the other materials he'd had to fix the wall. (This wasn't the first hole that Dean had had to repair. Or any of the rest of them, for that matter.)

John knelt beside his son, handing him a folded paper. "I talked to my friend, Bobby Singer. He lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota and is expecting you and your brother."

Dean leaned back against the wall, fiddling with the paper. "Thanks, Dad," he said, before making his decision. "Did you know that Sam decided not to go to college?"

John rearranged himself so that he was sitting and picked up the knife that Dean had dug out of the wall. "Yeah," he said softly. "Your mom and I tried to get him to change his mind, but he wouldn't. He blamed himself and demons. I've caught him going hunting every night that he could. The only thing your mom and I can do is worry and patch him up when he needs it," John dropped his head into one hand, the knife hanging limply from the other. "That boy's too much like me. I'm so thankful that you're like your mother."

Dean bit his lip. "He's just a kid. He doesn't need to be going out there, nearly getting himself killed. I…I was wrong before. We were idiots playing at hunting. We didn't belong out there."

John snorted, but nodded. "It sucks, getting older and wiser, doesn't it?" he said, clapping his son's shoulder.

The young man smiled. He didn't want his brother to end up like him.

They sat together in companionable silence, both pondering how to get the youngest Winchester to stop hunting. Finally, Dean stood up, unfolding the paper. It was driving directions.

"It'll get you to Bobby's. It shouldn't take more than a few days to get there, do what you have to, and get back," John said as he stood up as well. "Be careful, though. He's a hunter, even if he acts like a Man of Letters. Make sure that he doesn't convert your brother."

Dean pulled out his suitcase and began packing. "Did he say if he had anything on angels?"

Jon nodded. "He didn't know exactly what, but he'll be getting everything he has out while the two of you drive up."

Dean nodded and John left to tell Sam to get ready. He quickly finished and went downstairs. Mary sat in the family room, trying to hide tears. She stood up as he came in and took his bag. She inspected it, ultimately opening a little more space in it. She dropped it on the couch and hugged him tight. "I just got my baby back," she whispered, "and now I have to let you go again."

"It's only for a few days, Mom," he said, hugging her back. "I'll be back before you know it."

She let go, wiping under her eyes. "I know, honey. I just wish that I didn't have to let the two of you out of my sight."

Dean smiled down at her.

"Did you finish fixing my wall?"

Dean barely kept himself from laughing. Only his mother could be so sweet and loving one moment and terrifying the next.

"Yeah, Mama," he answered and she glared at the chuckle that escaped.

Sam and John came down the stairs, interrupting mother and son (much to Dean's relief!).

"You boys ready?" Mary asked, tears fresh in her eyes.

"Yes, mom," Sam nodded, hefting his backpack further up his shoulder.

John crossed the room to the kitchen doorway and the line of pegs beside it where the keys hung from. He took a familiar set and tossed it to Dean. "She's out back," he said, grinning.

Dean smiled and picked up his bag before going through the kitchen and out the door. There she was. His baby.

"Dad kept her running the way that the two of you like," Sam told him as Dean stroked a finger up the fender. He stopped at the handle and opened the door, hearing the familiar creak of old hinges.

"Let's get going, Sammy," he said as he threw his bag in the backseat and folded himself into the driver's seat.

As Sam shut his door after sitting down, Dean slid the key into the ignition and turned. The Impala came to life with a roaring purr. John and Mary waved as they drove away.

* * *

The porch creaked under their boots as they waited for Bobby to answer the door. Dean glanced around the surrounding junkyard. There was a mangled corpse of a car that looked far too much like his baby.

The door opened to show an older man in wrinkled clothes behind a screen door. "You John's boys?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answered.

"Come on in," he said, unhooking the lock. "I was just setting out the last of the texts."

"Have you found anything?" Sam asked.

Bobby gestured them to one book in particular. Its yellowing pages were opened to a detailed sketch on one side and the other page was written in tiny Latin lettering. Dean scanned it quickly. He wasn't completely fluent in the language, but he knew enough to get the gist of what the page said.

"John said that you wanted to know about angels," Bobby said, sitting down beside the table. "Especially if they can bring someone back. This says that they can, though the human's soul is marked. Whatever passes for a soul for an angel is as well, but I'm guessing that that's not as important to you."

"Is that true, Dean?" Sam asked him.

Dean stared down, eyes zeroed in on the exact passage Bobby was talking about. He shrugged his jacket off and pulled his sleeve up to show the burn.

They were interrupted by the sound of wings. All three of them tightened their grips on knives hidden on, or near, them. They looked into the adjacent room.

Castiel sat on a desk, flipping pages in a tome beside him. He looked up and stared directly at Dean. "Now do you believe me?"

**Author's Note:**

> And I'll hopefully be back to this soon! Please leave a comment and let me know if y'all are interested. It will give me more incentive to return quickly!


End file.
